So I’ve been reading Female Chauvinist Pigs, by Ariel Levy, which is about the new “feminist” movement (funfems) and how contemptuous these people are of women (especially other women). It’s really incredible to me: I knew funfems didn’t like women but not to this extent. These passages to me really summarize what they are really about:
There are two strategies a [Female Chauvinist Pig] uses to deal with her femaleness: either acting like a cartoon man- who drools over strippers, says things like “check out that ass,” and brags about having the “biggest cock in the building”- or acting like a cartoon woman, who has big cartoon breasts, wears little cartoon outfits, and can only express her sexuality by spinning around a pole…
[Funfem Camille] Paglia notoriously proclaimed that “if civilization had been left in female hands, we would still be living in grass huts.”
There are many of Levy’s eyewitness to everything from a Girls Gone Wild taping to a “feminist” sex party. Girls Gone Wild = Playboy = “sex empowerment” = “feminism.” Despite their wildly differing rhetoric, they are all really the same. It’s all about reducing women to their appearance and feeling smug about it. Their goal is to destroy feminism and keep women as objects of admiration for men.
This is why I will never feel guilty for calling them “funfems.” They are not feminists and never will be. They have as much contempt for women as the stupidest, horniest MRAs.
E’en now, e’en now, on yonder Western shores
Weeps pale Despair, and writhing Anguish roars:
E’en now in Afric’s groves with hideous yell
Fierce Slavery stalks, and slips the dogs of hell;
From vale to vale the gathering cries rebound,
And sable nations tremble at the sound!
–Ye bands of Senators! whose suffrage sways
Britannia’s realms, whom either Ind obeys;
Who right the injured, and reward the brave,
Stretch your strong arm, for ye have power to save!
Throned in the vaulted heart, his dread resort,
Inexorable Conscience holds his court;
With still small voice the plots of Guilt alarms,
Bares his mask’d brow, his lifted hand disarms;
But, wrapp’d in night with terrors all his own,
He speaks in thunder, when the deed is done.
Hear him, ye Senates! hear this truth sublime,
“He, who allows oppression, shares the crime.”
Erasmus Darwin, The Botanic Garden, a Poem In Two Parts.
We all allow the oppression of modern-day slavery and we all share the crime. Y’hear him?
No one exists today who stands up to slavery as much as a person like William Lloyd Garrison.
Assenting to the “self-evident truth” maintained in the American Declaration of Independence, “that all men are created equal, and endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights-among which are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” I shall strenuously contend for the immediate enfranchisement of our slave population…
I am aware that many object to the severity of my language; but is there not cause for severity? I will be as harsh as truth, and as uncompromising as justice. On this subject, I do not wish to think, or to speak, or write, with moderation. No! no! Tell a man whose house is on fire to give a moderate alarm; tell him to moderately rescue his wife from the hands of the ravisher; tell the mother to gradually extricate her babe from the fire into which it has fallen;-but urge me not to use moderation in a cause like the present. I am in earnest–I will not equivocate–I will not excuse–I will not retreat a single inch–AND I WILL BE HEARD. The apathy of the people is enough to make every statue leap from its pedestal, and to hasten the resurrection of the dead.
It is pretended, that I am retarding the cause of emancipation by the coarseness of my invective and the precipitancy of my measures. The charge is not true. On this question of my influence,-humble as it is,– is felt at this moment to a considerable extent, and shall be felt in coming years-not perniciously, but beneficially-not as a curse, but as a blessing; and posterity will bear testimony that I was right. I desire to thank God, that he enables me to disregard “the fear of man which bringeth a snare,” and to speak his truth in its simplicity and power. And here I close with this fresh dedication:
“Oppression! I have seen thee, face to face,
And met thy cruel eye and cloudy brow,
But thy soul-withering glance I fear not now–
For dread to prouder feelings doth give place
Of deep abhorrence! Scorning the disgrace
Of slavish knees that at thy footstool bow,
I also kneel–but with far other vow
Do hail thee and thy herd of hirelings base:–
I swear, while life-blood warms my throbbing veins,
Still to oppose and thwart, with heart and hand,
Thy brutalising sway–till Afric’s chains
Are burst, and Freedom rules the rescued land,–
Trampling Oppression and his iron rod:
Such is the vow I take–SO HELP ME GOD!”
“Many aver that the story confers no right on anyone to pass judgment on the doorkeeper. Whatever he may seem to us, he is yet a servant of the Law; that is, he belongs to the Law and as such is set beyond human judgment. In that case one dare not believe that the doorkeeper is subordinate to the man. Bound as he is by his service, even at the door of the Law, he is incomparably freer than anyone at large in the world. The man is only seeking the Law, the doorkeeper is already attached to it. It is the Law that has placed him at his post; to doubt his integrity is to doubt the Law itself.”
“I don’t agree with that point of view,” said K. shaking his head, “for if one accepts it, one must accept as true everything the doorkeeper says. But you yourself have sufficiently proved how impossible it is to do that.”
“No,” said the priest, “it is not necessary to accept everything as true, one must only accept it as necessary.”
“A melancholy conclusion,” said K. “It turns lying into a universal principle.”
From Kafka’s The Trial (see the whole parable)
This is an extract from the end of the novel He, She and It. Yod was a human-looking cyborg.
SPOILER ALERT: If you intend to read He, She and It, do not read this quote!
She could construct Yod the second, starting right now. Let men make weapons. She would make herself happiness. She would manufacture a being to love her as she wanted to be loved. She would create for herself a being who belonged to her alone, as she had dreamed since adolescence, as she had belonged body and soul to Gadi until he had ripped himself from her. She would set to work this afternoon. She could feel Yod’s dry hand in hers, his unblinking eyes fixed upon her darkly, sweetly.
“I have died and taken with me Avram, my creator, and his lab, all the records of his experiment… I die knowing I destroy the capacity to replicate me…” She could hear Yod speaking. But he hadn’t destroyed that capacity, not at all, because he had trusted her. He had taken care to save Malkah and herself from the explosion, never guessing she would undo his last act. She could see his face projected in her room. “Kaf must not come to be… I have done one good thing with my death. I have made sure there will be no others like me.”
He died convinced he had accomplished a goal that made his death palatable to him. Thus had he salvaged something for himself out of Avram’s fatal orders. Could she wipe out that sacrifice? He thought he had ended the line of cyborgs. If he could know she planned to reverse his act, would he not feel betrayed? She imagined Yod’s eyes fixed on her. The new cyborg would look just like him, and she would always expect it to say, “Shira, why? Why did you re-create me against my dying wishes?”
And what was her reason for hurrying? So that she would be started beyond stopping by the time Malkah returned; because Malkah, too, would tell her that the choice to make another Yod was immoral… If a cyborg created as a soldier balked and wanted to be a lover, might not a cyborg created as a lover long to be a celibate or an assassin? She remembered all the cyborgs who had looked just like Yod; Chet, who had killed David; all the autistic or violent offspring of Avram’s experiments.
She could not be Avram. She could not manufacture a being to serve her, even in love. Very slowly she walked back along the block to the house built around the courtyard. There in Malkah’s office she loaded the crystals into a backpack. She took all the records of Yod’s hardware and software, and she walked to the recycling plant.
Outside, she paused again. She stood in the old road, turning one way and then the other. These crystals are his real body. But if I do not destroy the capability, I will succumb. When I am especially lonely and I miss him even more strongly than usual, the temptation will recur. Another afternoon like this one, I will talk myself into the rightness of the attempt. First I will just look at him, watch him. Then I will want him. Then I will decide I cannot do without him. Like Avram, I will feel empowered to make a living being who belongs to me as a child never does and never should.
She carried her backpack into the recycling plant and emptied the crystals into the proper chute. The little cubes that were all that was left of Yod slid away into the fusion chamber and became energy. She had set him free.
This wonderful new “theory” of coercing lesbians to have sex with (trans) men is called the “cotton ceiling,” and it’s being promoted by Planned Parenthood Toronto. I don’t take stock in petitions, but if you want, you can sign one here. Here is femonade’s take on this new threat to female sexuality.
It’s funny how these trans men are using the same rhetoric men always use when they want to coerce women to fuck them: women are the gatekeepers, they have all the power, so they have to be nice and let us in… or else. Just goes to show you that penises all think the same, whether they’re trans or not.
From Brave New World, chapter 17:
“Charming! But in civilized countries,” said the Controller, “you can have girls without hoeing for them, and there aren’t any flies or mosquitoes to sting you. We got rid of them all centuries ago.”
The Savage nodded, frowning. “You got rid of them. Yes, that’s just like you. Getting rid of everything unpleasant instead of learning to put up with it. Whether ’tis better in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them … But you don’t do either. Neither suffer nor oppose. You just abolish the slings and arrows. It’s too easy.”
“But I like the inconveniences.”
“We don’t,” said the Controller. “We prefer to do things comfortably.”
“But I don’t want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.”
“In fact,” said Mustapha Mond, “you’re claiming the right to be unhappy.”
“All right then,” said the Savage defiantly, “I’m claiming the right to be unhappy.”
“Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen to-morrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind.” There was a long silence.
“I claim them all,” said the Savage at last.
Mustapha Mond shrugged his shoulders. “You’re welcome,” he said.
Guess who I think is right and who’s wrong. This one should be pretty easy.
(yes, I know who we’re supposed to root for)
I had dropped more or less by chance into the only community of any size in Western Europe where political consciousness and disbelief in capitalism were more normal than their opposites. Up here in Aragon one was among tens of thousands of people, mainly though not entirely of working-class origin, all living at the same level and mingling on terms of equality. In theory it was perfect equality, and even in practice it was not far from it. There is a sense in which it would be true to say that one was experiencing a foretaste of Socialism, by which I mean that the prevailing mental atmosphere was that of Socialism. Many of the normal motives of civilized life- snobbishness, money-grubbing, fear of the boss, etc.- had simply ceased to exist. The ordinary class-division of society had disappeared to an extent that is almost unthinkable in the money-tainted air of England; there was no one there except the peasants and ourselves, and no one owned anyone else as his master. Of course such a state of affairs could not last. It was simply a temporary and local phase in an enormous game that is being played over the whole surface of the earth. But it lasted long enough to have its effect upon anyone who experienced it. However much one cursed at the time, one realized afterwards that one had been in contact with something strange and valuable. One had been in a community where hope was more normal than apathy or cynicism, where the word “comrade” stood for companionship and not, as in most countries, for humbug. I am well aware that it is now the fashion to deny that Socialism has anything to do with equality. In every country in the world a huge tribe of party-hacks and sleek little professors are busy “proving” that Socialism means no more than a planned state-capitalism with the grab-motive left intact. But fortunately there also exists a vision of Socialism quite different from this. The thing that attracts ordinary men to Socialism and makes them willing to risk their skins for it, the “mystique” of Socialism, is the idea of equality; to the vast majority of people Socialism means a classless society, or it means nothing at all… [T]he Spanish militias, while they lasted, were a sort of microcosm of a classless society. In that community where no one was on the make, where there was a shortage of everything but no privilege and no boot-licking, one got, perhaps, a crude forecast of what the opening stages of Socialism might be like. And, after all, instead of disillusioning me it deeply attracted me. The effect was to make my desire to see Socialism established much more actualy than it had been before. Partly, perhaps, this was due to the good luck of being among Spaniards, who, with their innate decency and their ever-present Anarchist tinge, would make even the opening stages of Socialism tolerable if they had the chance.
Homage to Catalonia, p103-105